Chapter 10: Still

Noon burned through the panes, flooding the shop with gold too fierce to bear. Light caught on dust-dulled glass and brass, casting heat into every crevice. Some clocks ticked with stubborn persistence; others stood mute in the thick hush of oil and sweat.

He leaned shirtless against the counter, skin damp and gleaming. A vest lay folded on the stool beside him, its patches dark with age, relics of cooler hours lost to the day’s glare.

Across the room, Lira sat sketching him.

Her pencil moved in steady rhythm, tracing his shoulders in graphite. Her blouse hung open past her throat, loose against the heat. Her dress clung to her hips, smudged with charcoal from morning work. Her hair hung free, damp strands stuck to her neck. Above her, the antique clock rested—smoke-stained, still. Its gears bore last night’s ruin. The key sat cold and scratched on the counter. A relic. A line they’d crossed.

She looked up.

Pencil paused.

Her eyes traced him, sparking through the silence.

He wiped his brow. His fingers slick with sweat. The clock’s silence lifted something heavy from his chest—a weight he hadn’t known was his until it was gone.

She set the pencil down. Rose. Her boots scuffed faintly across the boards.

“Caught you this time,” she said.

Her voice low. Teasing.

She crossed to him, her blouse slipping to bare her collarbone. Noon light touched her skin.

“No more turns,” he said.

His voice dropped with the words—part relief, part regret.

She nodded. Her gaze didn’t waver. Fire flickered beneath her calm.

“Just us,” she said.

Her hands found his waist. Fingers brushed the waistband of his trousers. A spark.

“Still wound tight?” she added.

The tease in her voice landed sharp.

His breath caught. Pulse quickened. He rasped, “You’ll break me too.”

A challenge, half-dare.

Her smile deepened.

Her fingers unfastened him. One button. Then another. Then all.

She sank to her knees. Trousers slipped to the floor.

She took him into her mouth, slow and sure. Heat flared up through him. Noon burned around them.

He groaned. Hands threaded through her hair, grip tightening. Her tongue traced him with purpose. Her breath warmed his skin. Rhythm built. Her hunger deepened.

She glanced up—eyes steady. Fierce.

“Lira,” he gasped.

His hips moved of their own accord, driven by heat, by her.

Her moan vibrated through him.

Sweat beaded sharper under the light.

She rose. Shoved his vest aside. Her fingers traced his chest—sweat-slick and tense.

She kissed him. Deep. Full. Desperate.

He turned her. Gripped her waist.

Lifted her dress.

She pressed back against the shelf. Clocks rattled behind her.

A creak rose from the ruined clock above—gears twitching. Then still.

The sound wasn’t right.

It echoed wrong in the air.

She parted her legs. Dress hiked high.

He tore at her underthings. The fabric ripped.

He entered her fast.

The rhythm rough, raw, real.

She cried out. Her hands clutched the shelf. Nails dug grooves into the wood.

He kissed her neck. Tasted salt.

Her blouse peeled away.

He cupped her breasts, flushed in the noon’s heat.